The Smog Strangled Benny

When I was in high school, a friend and I co-wrote a parody of the Star Spangled Banner: "Oh, hey, can you breath/ all that smog in the air? Though unfit to inhale, through our lungs, it is streaming..."

That's about as far as we ever got.

I always liked the National Anthem because it's everything our national anthem should be. It is about the little guy (us) standing strong against the big bullies of this world. "America the Beautiful," is ok as a patriotic song, I guess. But the people who would make that our national anthem are the same people who are making it less beautiful. "God Bless America" is one that many people prefer, but, like "America the Beautiful," it's lyrics seem more ironic than truthful these days.

Last night, at the graduation ceremonies of the high school where I teach, one young lady was brought up to sing Our National Anthem. She had a lovely voice, but sang it with Mariah Carey-esque stylings that made it sound more like a song about making love than about holding on to courage during a time where the next mortar shell could take out you and your platoon. She crooned and warbled and writhed with her silky vocal calisthenics, seducing whoops and hollers from several members of the audience.

But the song is about bombs bursting in air, not fucking.

Ok, there might be a Freudian metaphor here-but the intent is certainly not sexual.

I guess we could blame Ray Charles for singing his famous rendition of "America the Beautiful." But that, in its time, was considered pretty radical by many. What Ray did was take a famous standard and re-invent it for the worker, who, getting home from the job, popped open a beer, sat down in the proverbial favorite chair, and reflected on love for this country. Also, it's a different song.

Or maybe we could blame Whitney Houston. She did sing that one version of the National Anthem at a Super Bowl or something. But it was jazzy and classy. She may not be jazzy and classy anymore, but that version of the National Anthem was. And, while she reshaped it for a new age, she didn't sex it up.

So, for all of you would-be and actual pop stars out there, the singing has to reflect what the song is about. It's not just about the singer.

Funny Hats and Beer....

I think I'm feeling a little more serious about starting a Sunday afternoon Uke Gathering. We could call the group Inland Empire Ukulele Society (I.E. UkeS: Clever, yet scholarly). My initial thought was that we could play with my friend Al, Al Fresco. We would meet at the UCR Belltower or something. Maybe Fairmont Park.

But, hey, why not go for the TURDS model? Those British guys really know about loud silly fun. And what better place to have loud silly fun than a pub? I've been in British pubs-ones that actually stood in Great Britain. I have actually sampled the house brew in a couple. There is no country in the universe that understands loud silly fun better than Great Britain. That's why their first name is Great.

And beer. What other ingredient promotes loud silly fun than BEER? So, we find a loud silly brewery in the Inland Empire with a loud silly patio and reserve it for the I.E. UkeSters.

It reminds me, if I may wax nostalgic, of the days when I taught at another high school. Oh, we didn't have ukes then. But the English Department there knew how to have loud silly fun.

Every couple of months, we would have poetry readings. Ok, I know that that doesn't sound especially loud, silly, or fun-but they were! We would go to a local place that would sell us beer and we would read great poetry while drinking. Trust me, it got silly. And loud. The only thing missing was funny hats.

Trust me, you don't know what loud and silly is until you have tried to analyze W.B. Yeats' "Leda and the Swan" after three or four beers. It takes on a whole new meaning.

Now, throw in a couple of silly hats and you've got something.

Take out "Leda and the Swan" and replace it with several ukuleles and you have something truly special.

Howlin' Hobbit, you magnificent bastard!

The Uke as Folk Instrument

I missed the Claremont Folk Festival last weekend. I just couldn't scrape together the desire to go. At the last two, Jumpin' Jim Beloff showed up and led a couple of ukulele workshops. They're usually geared for beginners, but they're still fun. At the last one, I was impressed at how my skills had improved. There were some songs that we played that were impossible for me two years ago that were simple last year. I like Jim's workshops.

I didn't see him on the schedule this year, which was a disappointment. But I have the feeling that a lot of the music Jim would perform did not fit the "folk" theme for some. I recall that he sang "Love Is a Many Splendored Thing," which is a little sugary for my tastes.

Jim is an excellent musician, uke-wise at least, and is an excellent workshop leader. Whether or not Jim leads workshops, they should continue to have uke workshops at this fest. What could be more of a folk instrument than the uke-accessible to a broad range of abilities, easy to carry around, has traveled the world and has been adapted to many different genres.

I was looking at pictures of the Seattle Ukulele Players' Association (I think that's the name) recent Ukulele Sunday event. Basically, what they had there was a folk event: People of a community playing together, swapping songs.

It would be fun to try that around here. Maybe during the summer. Pick a public place, get a few people to meet, attract the interest of strangers. Who knows?

High Anxiety

I re-read my letter from the guy who will be leading my workshop in Taos this summer. I have got to come up with a piece of short fiction that draws off of its setting. In other words, it must be a short story about place. I have this unfinished short story that has always gotten good feedback and has always been left unfinished. I could try and finish it, but I feel like I'd only be playing it safe because I have already gotten positive feedback on it and it's not like I'd be coming up with anything new.

And like I have enough time to write.

I also have a weekend poetry workshop at the same conference. This also deals with place. I'm not as worried about that, although I haven't written any poetry for awhile.

As for the fiction workshop, it just sounds a little more advanced than I thought it would be.

Anyway, that's one reason I started this blog-to keep my writing chops warmed up for when something hits me. There are a couple of things here that I could work on. But I'm in my masterpiece or nothing mode right now.

My experience at last year's conference was really good. I wrote a lot and enjoyed the people.

The previous one wasn't as good. It was in Napa valley and the food and wine were good, but the workshop was not. Our leader was an ok writer, but I don't think that she was especially concerned with her students. I got the impression that she hadn't really planned much and that she was more concerned with how many books people bought.

The one thing I did get from her was how to write a Sijo (see first post). I like that form more than haiku or tanka. It's long enough for some kind of narration, but short enough to keep you honest. No room for false steps.

But, at Taos, the feeling was very good. The people were generally friendly. I was really able to relax there.

I Think Some of You Missed My Point

I have boiled eggs many times. My point was that I had lost my egg-boiling mojo. When you lose a mojo, it doesn't matter what you know, you just can't make it work.

If you poke holes at both ends of the egg before boiling, peeling it is much easier. Sure, a little bit of leakage-but it's easier to peel.

In my heart, I knew that I was playing with the unknown, but I had to see for myself. It's human nature. Just like with Lot's wife. Or Orpheus and Eurydice.

One reason for losing my mojo is that I seldom eat whole eggs anymore. I use egg beaters. If you scramble two parts egg whites and one part regular egg beaters, they look almost scrambled eggs.

I just today tried microwaving some egg beaters. They were delicious. The hard part was peeling off the carton.

Household Hints: How to Boil an Egg

I recently experienced the loss of both my barbecue and potato salad mojos. I have regained the barbecue mojo, but the potato salad mojo eludes me.

The last two times I tried making potato salad, I had difficulty boiling the eggs long enough. The eggs came out soft boiled instead of hard boiled.

This last time, I managed to peel the shell off and found the white a little runny. The time before that, I tried micrwaving an unpeeled egg and discovered the incredible edible egg's explosive properties.

But, this time, I figured that, without the shell, perhaps there would be no harm in boiling the peeled, undercooked egg for 30 seconds.

When I took it out, the white was still a little soft. I thought that nuking it for 30 seconds more might be risky.

Then it dawned on me-if you nuke a potato, you're supposed to poke holes in it. The egg is potato-shaped. The principle must be the same. So, I got a skewer and found out what happens if you poke a hole into an egg that has been nuked for 30 seconds.

It'll explode.

If you hold it close, it will explode in your face.

God, it was bitchen.

Lost Masterpiece Found

Hey, I found it and posted it. Two posts down.

The Lost Masterpiece

I just spent an hour writing a very reflective entry about Leonard's Welcome-Back Ukulele. It was a very touching piece. Since I am typing here at the RCC Reading and Writing Center, my weekend teaching gig, and the computer was giving me some problems, I decided to save it as a draft and fix it up when I got home this afternoon. It seems to have disappeared altogether.

Now I know how Hemingway must have felt at the Paris train station when Hadley forgot the suitcase with all of his short story manuscripts. The internet is the train station. This computer is Hadley. And I, of course, am Hemingway.

Actually, I guess this computer is Pauline, the woman with whom Hemingway had an affair and later divorced Hadley to marry. My computer at home would be Hadley. Of course, I'll never leave her for this computer. I'll just buy a new computer and store her in my garage, planning on copying her hard drive, but never getting around to it.

Uke of the Month Club

When UF brought in Leonard's welcome-back ukulele into my classroom, he gave it to me to test it out. We found that we had both had the same initial impulse: forget Leonard, let's keep it. Each of us wanted to keep it for ourselves, of course-we wouldn't have shared ownership. I think we both tend to covet ukes we don't have.

Not that it was such a special uke. It was just a low-end Lanikai that cost about $60. It was nothing special in and of itself.

It was special to Leonard, and to us, because of the thought behind it.

My first uke, a soprano Estrella, is not exactly a Stradivaius. But I still get a great deal of pleasure playing it-n part,because it was a gift and, in part, because it was my first.

Actually, I guess it was my second. The first was that cardboard cheapo I bought at Music Mike's to play in that production of Godspell ten or so years ago. Being ignorant, I left it in the car in the summer heat and-presto!-I took it out at one rehearsal, strummed it once, and the neck came off. I replaced it with a plastic toy guitar and only pretended to play.

Thus, my musical destiny was postponed for a decade.

Since getting my Estrella, I have accumulated 10 ukes. A few are really cheap ones that I keep in my classroom for when a student comes up and asks to play my ukulele. I know of too many guitarist friends who bring their best instruments to school, only to have some student who didn't ask and didn't respect the intstrument cause some damage. Most students regard the uke as a toy and initially treat it pretty casually. I insist that they treat my uke gently. But, since I don't have eyes in the back of my head, they use the ukes I got somewhere for cheap. If they want, I teach them a few chords.

I don't have any really expensive ukes. My best right now are my Oscar Schmidt and my two Belfiore's. I am trying to be strong and save my money for a really nice one one day. But that six-string Lanakai cut-away tenor calls my name, like the sirens to Ulysses. And, while, it won't cause me to crash against the rocks and drown, it will cost me some serious cabbage.

The other realization I had while strumming Leonard's uke to be was that, if I could get a new ukulele every month, I would practice 10 times more. I like the feel and sound of a new uke. I like how it sounds different from my others. I like the brilliant tone in my Belfiores. I like the hushed tone of Oscar. I like the flimsy sound of my cheap Mahalo.

Just a uke a month, that's all I ask.

Ukulele Healing Ritual

A colleague from school recently had his colon checked out for cancer. I guess he had no symptoms and is not of the age where doctors recommend you have this procedure, but they found a tumor, 1/16th of an inch, and removed it. Then, just before spring break, he had a follow-up procedure which kept him out six weeks.

He tells me that, if he had waited five years, when he would have been of the age that the exploratory procedure is commonly done, he would have been dead. Colon cancer is the number two killing cancer.

So, when we heard that he was coming back to school, UF and I headed up a welcome back gift drive in our department and bought him a ukulele, case, and song book. He is an accomplished guitarist and, whenever he comes to my classroom, he picks up one of my ukes and starts playing around on it. So, I figured he'd probably like it.

He is one of the reasons I keep two ukes at school. Often, whenever anyone walks into my classroom and finds me jamming, they ask if they can try it out. So, I give them the uke I am playing and grab the other uke to continue my jam. This teacher is one of the best offenders. He has actually shared some guitar stuff that translates to uke.

UF presented it to him yesterday (I was out). When I went to his classroom today, strumming my Oscar Schmidt, I found him walking around the classroom, cradling his new uke, jamming away while his students worked. He was truly touched by the gift.

He is not normally an emotional kind of guy, but he said that he was truly choked up when UF delivered his new uke.

Hey, another convert to the movement.

Curmudgeonliness is next to Godliness

I was just looking at the blog of my youthful ukernet community friend Howlin' Hobbit, where he waxes rhapsodic on his impending entry into the curmudgeon stage of his life. Hey, pal, I've been there for a year.

My first clue was when I realized people were beginning to call me "sir" and really mean it.

By the way, I remember the first time I was called "sir." I was 16. I was with a group of friends in Pasadena on New Year's Eve, waiting to see the Rose Parade. I was walking along a dark street that lead up to the parade route, when this 13-year-old addressed me. "Sir," he said, "Can you buy me a six pack of beer?" It was dark, like I said. On that same night, right after the clock struck twelve, this woman who had to be at least 18, grabbed me by the shirt collar and said "Kiss me, sweetie!" and planted what had to be the longest, deepest kiss that I had ever had at that point in my life on my tender, quivering lips.

I should mention that I was there with a church group.

But, I digress.

These days, I find myself the occasional victim of ageism, even though 51 is not that old, by today's standards. It seems some people do assume that I represent some antiquated way of living. I have more than once been called old-fashioned.

As Bob Dylan once said, "He not busy being born is busy dying." I know more younger People than I care to count who have trapped themselves into lifestyles they can no longer see their way out of: children they didn't plan, marriages they settled for-Hell! affairs to which they are neither morally or legally bound, but can't see their way out of.

I am not always the best at "being born," but I have been more of a student of life during the past ten or so years than I ever was before. I went back to school and got my Masters at the age of 48. I took up the ukulele at the age of 49 and have started singing again-this time, the kinds of songs I want to sing. I have started writing again.

I think curmudgeoning is not a bad way of life. Look forward to it.

I Retract Previous Post

But I will leave it up for any entertainment value.

I had a good time at the concert. There were many groups performing and lots of students and former students were in those groups. I especially liked the percussion groups-even the steel band.

The staging was a little overwrought. The sound system was probably bigger than when we had Jaguares play in our gym. It was also uneven. There were times when you could hear everything very well. There were other times where you could hear some parts better than others.

It was hard for me to tell. But the sound on my little schpiel kept changing. I wasn't speaking that loud, but I had my mouth very close to the mike and, at the beginning, it was way too loud. I was going for an whispery, evil tone. Like I was disturbed. I mean, I was reading Poe, so it seemed appropriate.

Anyway, it was short and sweet.

The professional actor who performed "One Night in Bangkok" was alright. But I kept thinking about how UF and I could do it on ukulele.

Oh, and the jazz choir, which sang "Take the A-Train," "Bangkok," and "The Raven," was pretty good. The best vocal performances I have heard from that group.

Poe No Mo'

I got myself talked into participating in a concert at the high school tomorrow night. It is some musical phantasm thing with a world music emphasis. I am glad to help the kids, but some members of our music department have GOT to get some taste.

When I was in my high school and college concert choirs, we performed timeless works of great majesty. Now, the emphasis is on pop tunes. It seems that music teachers don't want to stretch their students musically. Too bad, because, in some communities, the public schools are the only places where they get any music education.

The piece that I am participating in is a thing from an Alan Parsons Project album. This selection is called "The Raven" and is an adaptation of Poe's famous poem of the same title. The part that I am reading was originally read by Orson Wells. I think it was recorded live. They wheeled Orson out and had him recite this monologue-I presume Poe's own words-in which he says essentially that there are some ideas that he can't put into words.

This passage must be one of those ideas, because I couldn't figure it out and I have a Masters in English. UF came over during lunch one day and we looked at it and figured the above translation.

I wonder, if Poe and Shakespeare could have ever gotten together, what would they talk about? I like Poe (well, sometimes), but have to think that Shakespeare would give up and sail back to England.

ASB wants UF and I to perform at a teacher's tea at the end of the year. I would prefer to keep alive the illusion that my musicianship is as good as UF's, but I will perform anyway. The idea is that we will take turns playing songs we know and then play a few together. Could be fun.

Like I said, UF is the better player.

But I have a much more charming stage persona.

The Rube Goldberg Device That Is My Life

So today I decided to mow my lawn. I won't go into exactly how momentous that is, but my neighbors gathered around my yard and applauded. Some wept tears of joy.

I decided to go all the way with this. I started by getting out my weed-whacker and whacking weeds, as well as whacking those hard-to-reach places. After about twenty minutes of heartfelt weed-whacking, I realize that, while I continue to whack, the whacker had wussed. That is, it had run out of that plastic stuff they use to make nyl-gut ukulele strings. It was whackless.

I looked to see whether I had any more line and found that I did not. So, I figured I could get more tomorrow so why not just start mowing the main law?

I got out my new electric mulcher mower and had mowed a few rows when, from out of nowhere, my sprinklers started up. I was disoriented for a second, as far as I knew, it had started raining or something-except the rain was falling up. Fortunately, I let go of the trigger so I was not electrocuted (these electric mowers are well-designed in that regard) and unplugged quickly.

I don't remember doing it, but I must have knocked off the device that controls sprinklers-that electric doo-hickey that is wired to the timer-because a fine geyser was spraying up from just that area. I think the last gardener I had must have broken it and mickey-moused it back together. Since I usually turn my sprinklers on manually, I wouldn't have noticed that.

With Odyssean calm, I bent down to study the geyser, forced to stand directly in the line of fire of one sprinkler. I found the parts that fit, but it took about twenty minutes to screw them back in, what that I was screwing them into the geyser.

My lawn got pretty wet, so I couldn't finish the job, leaving the grass half short and half long-the short grass kind of zig-zagging around the tall grass.

If anyone asks, I'll just tell them it's the world's smallest crop-circle.

Bring Your Daughter to Work Day

Thursday was BYDtWD (see title above). My co-teacher brought his 2-year-old with him. It was a testing day, so it was a risk, since there isn't much interesting going on for us, let alone a 2-year-old girl. She had a pretty good time though and is a sweet kid.

Before class starts, I usually stand outside. playing one of my ukes as I greet the students. I re-entered strumming as the students settled down. She has seen me play my ukulele before and at first called it a guitar. Her father asked her what it was and she said "ukulele," or an approximation thereof. The kid's learning.

Later, during a break in testing, she asked me to play her a song. I asked her what song, she asked for U2's "Vertigo," because her father, a big u2 fan, has taught her to be a u2 fan. That's his favorite song right now, so it's hers too.

So I said, "I don't know that song, but I do know a song that I think you know." I then whipped into "Wild Honey." It was Jon's idea that "Wild Honey" would be a good uke song. He and his daughter sing it together sometimes at home.

Her eyes opened up wide and she said "We're IN this song!"

I said "You are? Where?"

"We're the monkeys!" she said.

So I played her the first verse and she sang along. When I got into the second verse, something else caught her attention and she ran off.

I try not be hurt. She has a 2-year-old's attention span. Also, the second verse is where Bono stops singing about monkeys and starts talking about the weather and time and that sort of thing.

But it does seem like everybody's a critic.

Later on, when her dad was talking to the students, she was running around. She's much cuter than her dad, so the students were more interested in her.

I tried to help by taking her over to my compact fridge, which, in my homey style, I have decorated with pictures of my nieces and nephews when they were younger.

She started pointing at each face and asking "'s that?

"That's Emily," I'd say.

"'S that?"

"Michael."

And so on. When we'd get to the end, she'd start over. Pretty soon, the whole class was watching me teach her my nieces' and nephews' names.

I am sure that, if nothing else, everyone in our class now has those names memorized.

Brother Atom Bomb of Reflection

This is my new name as a new member of the First Reformed Unitarian Jihad. If you don't believe me, check here:

My Unitarian Jihad Name is: Brother/Sister Atom Bomb of Reflection. What's yours?

Many cultures, Native American nations come to mind, allow people to change their names as they grow. Sitting Bull's childhood name was "Slow," because of his slow, deliberate nature. Later, his father, named Sitting Bull, gave his name to Slow and took another name for himself.

Pencil of Shame/Stinky Students

I understand when high school students don't do their work. As a teacher friend of mine summed it up, "It's not their fault. It's all that new hair."

But college students, even community college students, should have some dedication. Hell, they're PAYING for their education.

This kid walks into my college class tonight. I had him as a student when he was in the ninth grade. His work ethic hasn't changed much. During the first quarter, on four separate occasions, he showed up for the first hour of class and then left. I assumed that, on the fourth offense, he would just decide to drop and I'd never see him again. The following week, he was a no-show. Spring Break came and went. The first meeting after break, he was a no-show. Then, tonight, he walks in. Now, mind you, on top of this, he hasn't turned in a single assignment.

So I told him to get his belongings and come outside and talk to me. I told him that he was welcome to stay, but he had no chance of passing the class at this point. He had no response. He just left.

Geez, this was so high school.

Happened last week with another student. Missed four classes. No contact. No assignments. Showed up after four weeks. Didn't bring his textbook. Didn't bring a notebook. Did bring a pencil. I took him outside to explain that he had no chance of passing. Same scenario, except he wanted to know if there was any way I would accept late work. I said no. He then asked if I minded if he went back into the class and got his pencil.

It must have been an important pencil.

Tonight, while I was lecturing, this one student got up and walked out for something or other. As he did so, the woman sitting next to him gasped, turned, and started laughing uncontrollably. So much so, she had to leave. Some other students started giggling as well. I noticed this rotten stench that seemed to come from nowhere. It stunk!

I thought, did someone pull a fart-for-laughs joke? That's what it smelled like.

I couldn't believe that would happen, even at a community college. I figured that it must be an unfortunate series of unrelated events.

Both students came back after awhile.

After class, the woman and her boyfriend, also a student in the class, asked me if they could move. Apparently, the phantom stench was a trail of body stink that trailed behind the guy who got up and left. No fart, just nuclear BO.

This couple told me that this guy's stink had been a problem all semester, but had become lethal tonight. Or, as the boyfriend put it, his boys were visiting the rest of us.

I'm not sure how you tell an adult that he needs to bathe before class.

Open Mic (Mike?) in Claremont

I am genetically predisposed to getting to places one-half-hour later than I intend, I have decided. My intention was to get to the Folk Music Center early enough to get on the first half of the sign up list. Unfortunately for me and music history, that was not to be.

UF got there plenty early and even he was performer number nine. I was fifteen. I think that I have always ended up being fifteen.

There were a lot of people there to perform. I think over thirty signed up, causing the management to cut each performer down to one song. The only exception was Trailer Park Mac and his band, whatever their name was. Mac and the boys are pretty good, and Mac is a well-known regular, so they got to play two songs. I was a little afraid that Open Shirt Guy would have insisted on playing two songs, because he has a pretty inflated idea about his talent. But he didn't.

Speaking of Open Shirt Guy, he was pretty friendly over all and joked with some of us and complimented each player as they stepped down from the stage. He also stayed until the end, which he doesn't often do. He's one of those performers who makes you sit through his set, and then leaves. When his turn came up, he tried to set up a sing along to a song that was pretty nice, but complicated lyrically. I t went something like this: "Oh, hie thee faire maid/for thine ample young bosom/Doth heave and sigh for I./Aye, I doth know./ For it's I'm goin' fro to yonder/to a maid who is much blonder/And I would'na spare protection far below."

Or something like that.

It made me long for the simplicity of "Wimoweh."

But it was an entertaining moment. Many of us "oohed" along. Some chuckled.

UF sang his Walmart song. It got a pretty good response. But, this being my second or third listen, I think it needs more ambiguity. I find it very Randy Newmanesque. I just wish I didn't know what he meant by it. I love that sort of thing.

A young woman sitting in front of me was wearing low-hung jeans and a thong. That was a bonus.

The guy who played second that night sang this great song he had written about surviving volcanoes and other disasters which prepared him for surviving some unnamed woman's love.

There was one guy who sang one original song and still managed to clock in at over ten minutes. It wasn't a bad song, but the intro, mid-waytro, and outro was a little self-indulgent and could have been edited. As soon as he finished, he left.

There should be a law. This particular open mic has a communal sense about it. If you don't want to be a part of the community, go play at Starbucks.

There was a trio that reminded me a little bit of the three stooges. I kept expecting them to be funny, but they weren't. They were good and their harmonies were unique.

Donita and John performed a blues song, "Make Love Like a Man," that simply smoldered. Her voice and his guitar played very well together.

Billy Canary was in the audience, but did not perform.

I performed U2's "Wild Honey." I don't know why this crowd made me nervous. I sang the same song in front of 1500 screaming teenagers at an assembly last month and that didn't phase me. But I was nervous last night. I think the only way it really manifested itself was that my voice was a little wavery and I repeated part of the second verse twice.

Next month is the Claremont Folk Music festival. So there won't be an open myque until June.

I need to practice more. It is hard to find time. I am hoping that I can find someone to practice regularly with.

RIP, Les

Take care! Beware
of the green-eyed dragon with the thirteen tails!
He'll feed with greed
on little boys, puppy dogs and big, fat snails...

Just got an e-mail from Billy Canary telling me that Les has died. He was 89. He had dropped so far out of orbit from many in the old Mish Dinner Theater group that most of us assumed that he had died.

Les was the guy who played the older character in most of our productions. He played the Rabbi in Fiddler. He played the Buster Keaton role in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, he played the old Indian Chief in Little Mary Sunshine. He was a real hoot.

My experience at the Mish was mostly as the newbie who had no training in show business. I started acting there when a guy in the cast of Fiddler 2, who was a lawyer by trade, was told by his wife that he needed to spend more time building his practice and less time in show biz. I got called in as his alternate.

Les was one of those people who was very encouraging to me backstage. He always had a kind word.

One night, as part of the pre-show, I sang a song called "The Green-Eyed Dragon," an old chestnut I had gotten from a minister friend of mine. It is a quasi-classical novelty tune with this wonderful piano bit, kind of like "Pink Elephants on Parade." I wish I had an arrangement for ukulele because it is one of the few songs that is permanently embedded in my brain.

Anyway, when I came off stage, Les was there, asking me "Where did you find that song?" He had heard it when he was young. In fact, he had a recording of John Charles Thomas, a popular tenor in the 30's and 40's, singing that song. I sang that song almost every show night during the pre-show.

One night, just before the show, Les presented me with a tape he had made from some of his old 78's. Among the songs was John Charles Thomas singing "The Green-Eyed Dragon."

Others included a very young Frank Sinatra singing "Old Man River," Bing Crosby on "I Hear America Singing," and some popular baritone singing "Glory Road."

When the dinner theater closed back in '83 (I think), that was the last time I saw Les. What a fine man.

I should probably try to work out a uke arrangement for that song.

We Need a New Religion

Part of me wants this new Pope to be a great man. Part of me thinks that, given the Catholic Church's record with handling its pedophile priests, it doesn't much matter what this new pope does. If he can't in some way make the pedophile issue right, he is a fraud anyway and any moral highground he supposes himself to have is also phony. Likewise, any stance he takes on the right-to-life issue. What good does it do to say that all fetuses are human beings who deserve to be born if you don't think it is just as important to protect the children who are born? And having that Cardinal Law preside at the Pope's funeral mass is definitely a sign that none of them gets it.

As far as I'm concerned, any accomplishment of the Catholic Church, even those I agree with, is negated by their refusal to openly address the problem of child molestation and those who would cover for those who molest children. "Suffer the little children..." ya know?

And it seems that this papal election just demonstrates how the major religions of the world, at least the judeo-islamic-christian ones, are intent on dragging us backwards into the dark ages.

History has shown that enlightenment trumps fundamentalism every time. Eventually, anyway.

My faith is simply that God manifests hinself in random acts of human kindness. Everything else is just ego.